


but we’re the losers on the back seats (set me free)

by IuvenesCor



Series: Old Works and WIPs [5]
Category: Bastille (Band), To Kill A King (Band)
Genre: Past Brainwashing, Rebels, Song: Quarter Past Midnight (Bastille), WWCOMMS | Wild World Communications (Bastille), some violence, yet another WWCOMMS au- woohoo!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27957884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: It’s an age old tale:WWCOMMS sucks.People get brainwashed.Revolution happens.People get saved.(At least, that’s how the rebels always hope the story ends.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Old Works and WIPs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022838
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Woof. Started writing this one back when the ReOrchestrated concerts were happening (gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve followed these lads that it took me a solid minute to remember the tour name ;_;), before my other WWCOMMS short AU. I’m hoping maybe I can get inspired to finish this by posting the chapters I’ve got, but no promises.

Rebels.

It’s a laugh at first. Nobody had ever heard of a rebellion like this before. People rise up against dictators and decrees, against restrictions and religions— not against a private corporation. 

WWCOMMS laughs the loudest, perhaps, from the start. The goliath media company delivers their news reports none too seriously, telling scripted tales of this new so-called rebel band only because it is relevant to current events. The public would likely be surprised if they didn’t acknowledge the threats directed toward Wild World Communications itself.

But then the “rebels” start saying things. Making claims that cause people to stop and think, to worry. Purportedly hacking into WWCOMMS’ database and leaking unsettling documents. Suggesting that perhaps a private company _shouldn’t_ be able to grow so big, so ravenous, that it swallows up all its competition and half the free market with them. Starting whispers of things like blackmail and brainwashing.

WWCOMMS keeps laughing. And of course, because WWCOMMS laughs, the public continues to laugh as well, even if it is despite themselves and their better judgments. Surely the government would never allow a company to virtually enslave people with threats and indoctrination, right? These rebels are just rabble-rousing fools.

But everyone knows it’s no longer a matter of comedy.

So starts the real uprising, though it is easily swept under the rug by WWCOMMS’ almighty newsroom. Protests from the rebels. Intimidation from the Company. Fights, eventually. Mystery arsons. Missing persons. And, after a time, raids.

Of course, WWCOMMS assures the public there is nothing to fear. The rebels are lunatics, anarchists, degenerates, criminally insane; but they will never be allowed to stop Wild World Communications in its useful purpose of serving the country— and someday, the world.

Nothing to fear at all.

And yet, four numbers are enough to strike a chord of dread in any member of WWCOMMS’ well fortified regime.

_00:15._

Quarter Past Midnight.

The rebellion.

•

The first to show up underground, scurrying in like a damp sewer rat, is Charlie. He’s a quite a sight, covered in rain water and blood; he’s standing on his own two feet, which is a comfort, but the look of him doesn’t bode well.

Ralph is there to receive him immediately. The senior rebel has been waiting at the end of the stairwell ever since the texts came through. _Compromised. Under fire. Need medical attention. ETA 40 mins at best._ It’s been nearly an hour and a half since then— an hour and a half to make a drive that normally wouldn’t last a third of that. It must have been hell shaking their tail, then. 

Ralph’s ready for the worst. Defeat is a hard thing to swallow, but he’s prepared for that bitter pill. Charlie’s alive, so that’s at least something. He can hear other footsteps approaching from the surface, too, but he doesn’t let his hopes billow.

“What’s our numbers?” he asks, jaw hard set.

Half bent over from exhaustion, chest heaving, Charlie takes all too long to respond for Ralph’s liking. His expression is pained and grave, and Ralph realizes that most of the visible blood on him is concentrated in a dark patch by his poorly bandaged shoulder. No missions for this one for a good while.

And yet, even while Ralph assumes he’s a bad omen, the young man’s split lip curls in a dissonant grin.

“Plus four,” he gasps. “No losses.”

_Plus four._

That’s more than a bit of maths. That’s a damn _miracle._

Ralph lets go the breath burning in his lungs and chances a smile. _Plus four_ is not going to be simple— he can see hesitation in Charlie’s face— but it’s the best report they’ve had in a long time. 

•

_Plus four_ means four rooms in the subterranean compound kept under lock and key; it means four men, radiating various levels of anger and distress, confined to these four rooms until they come to their senses. 

Ralph will visit them momentarily, but for now he listens to Charlie’s assessment. 

“The first one’s what gave me the split lip,” the young man says, wincing as his bullet wound is tended to by the resident medical team. “He’s the only one who doesn’t look to be obviously brainwashed, so either he’s in on the game or the company’s got something over on him. Then there’s another, probably well brainwashed— went down with fists flying, too. The other guys were the worst.” His tight expression speaks of pity, but there’s anger lingering underneath. “No colour in their eyes at all. One tried to run away, he was hollering for help until we shut him up. The other just… sort of stood there. They must have broken him good.”

Silence (save for the occasional hiss of pain from Charlie) commands the room for quite some time before Ralph responds.

“Give me an objective opinion.” It isn’t exactly fair to ask Charlie to be _objective_ about the situation, but Ralph needs to know that all emotions can be put aside. If not, it might place their whole team at risk. “Can we bring ‘em around, or is this a lost cause?”

The young man bows his head. “It all happened so fast. Honestly, I can’t say for sure without talking to them.” His gaze slowly rises until it meets Ralph’s expectant stare. “But we have to try. Sit down with them. _Please_.”

The rebel leader nods. “It’s the least we can do.”

“...Thank you.”

Without another word, Ralph leaves the med staff to their work and begins the long walk to the detaining rooms.

He’s still holding back on hope; but after all the bad news going around lately, something’s got to give. And if that “something” is WWCOMMS giving up a few lost souls, it’s better than nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii so I know nothing about news agencies or sports. Nonetheless, here we go. :P

The plan had never been to get tangled up in the nefarious web of corporate greed and armchair dictators. And furthermore, the plan had definitely not been to get so tangled up that he could never get out.

All Woody had wanted was a _job_ , for heaven’s sake.

It started out that simple, it really did. It started as simple as some fool dream he had even before his GCSEs of being a football club manager. (That was better than trying to be an actual footballer, he reasoned, because you could never get too old or out of shape to be a manager. Funny how his forward thinking sort of disappeared after that.) So that’s what he had pursued in uni— sports management, and graduated in it, too— only to find that there wasn’t exactly a huge market for football managers.

He was able to get odd jobs in shops, but that left him feeling as accomplished as a handful of snow melting in the summer. There was no effort there, no sense of achievement. He felt a bit dead inside after a while. And then, two things happened.

First: Chrissy.

Then: WWCOMMS.

His friend, going on girlfriend, had pointed out the job opening to him. It was a lazy, soggy weekend and he was spending more time going cross-eyed at his second hand laptop than actually giving attention to the beautiful young woman keeping him company while his flatmates were out and about.

“What about that one?” Chrissy suggested, tapping lightly at the screen and the listing that nearly flew off the screen unnoticed. “Sports writer.”

Woody scoffed. “For which I’m qualified how, exactly?”

“Did you pass grammar in uni?”

“Barely.”

“Do you know sports?”

“This is a leading question.”

“Then come on! At least it would be a little bit closer to the job you want. Better to have something occasionally to do with football than never at all.”

“Yes.” Woody gently pushed her wagging finger aside with his own and tapped a different spot on the screen. “But _that_ is what gives me no hope.”

“WWCOMMS? Why not?”

“Well, they’re only one of the biggest media groups in the country. I don’t much think they’re gonna hire a guy on the merits of being a football fanatic.”

Yet, by what he thought (so mistakenly) must have been a miracle, a month later he found himself walking into his new job in a modest, never worn suit and shining loafers and following the head of the WWCOMMS writing department to his new cubicle.

That was simple, too, and for quite a while. Sometimes keeping up with player statistics across several sports made his head spin, but that was the nature of the profession. Beyond that, it was a normal job, but _better_ , because football was more often than not involved and he finally got to feel like his degree meant something. He got company perks, nice insurance, a fairly uneventful workplace; and, best of all, he made a tidy salary, which was very useful as years went on for things like marriage and a house and a new car. It was all remarkably domestic, and not at all what Woody had expected of life, but he was okay with all of it.

Well… mostly all of it.

•

_He wakes up somewhere unfamiliar. (It definitely isn’t the stark whites and blacks of WWCOMMS.) The walls here are cinder block; one side looks like its been holding up the ceiling for decades, dingy grey with pock marks in every corner, while the other three are a brighter, cleaner, noticeably intact grey._

_The blueish fluorescence coming from the ceiling lights make his head ache, as if it weren’t aching enough. At least he knows what happened before he blacked out, if not what has happened since then. The same young man (rebel, the people that showed up had to be those 00:15 rebels) that he clocked in the jaw had soon after pulled a pistol up out of thin air and brought the butt of it careening toward his head. (At least the kid was decent enough not to blow his brains out instead.)_

_That might explain where he is. If those thugs are actually the rebels… and on closer inspection, as his hands are tied to the chair he’s been sat in..._

_He’s in the thick of it now._

•

Discomfort and discontentment wasn’t something Woody noticed immediately. In his circle of influence at WWCOMMS, life was usually quite mundane. All he had to worry about was getting his articles online before every deadline, each columnist around him doing the exact same in whatever field they belonged. But it was impossible not to cross paths with unusual aspects of the company.

They were little things. Odd things. Things that he could rationalize, sometimes. If the editor seemed suspicious of everyone, that was probably just the man’s nature. If someone’s article got corrupted, document fully unusable, a glitch in the computer could be blamed. If someone from four cubicles down suddenly quit and no one ever saw them again, they must have found another job or had a family emergency. There was no shortage to reasonable excuses.

But then it got weirder.

•

_There’s been plenty of time to get angry, grow worried, struggle at the cable ties on his wrists, and get angry again. The cycle has continued for some time before there’s any sign of life around him._

_A man with an almost familiar face shuffles in holding a beat-up folding table under his arm, saying nothing, not even bothering to look his captive in the eye. Woody, stubborn as he is and fully unwilling to play the part of an anxious abductee, watches in silence._

_It’s only after the table is set up in front of him, and after the man leaves just to promptly return with an unwieldy handful of wires and an old brown box of a lie detector, that any words are exchanged._

_“Afternoon,” the man says, finally sizing up Woody. His stare doesn’t give away anything— emotions, intentions, first impressions. Nothing at all. But pulling memories of brief snippets from half-ignored news reports, Woody is fairly certain he’s an important figure in the rebellion ranks. “Are you hungry? I can get you something to eat.”_

_Returning the stare through a suspicious squint, Woody tenses his jaw. “I’ll pass. An aspirin would do me wonders, though.”_

_The man nods. “I can do that.”_

_He deposits his armful of junk on the far end of the table before once again leaving Woody alone. For a kidnapper, this guy is pretty civil so far. Woody’s less pissed at him directly, and more so at the fact of being forcibly removed from company grounds. Then again, this politeness might be a facade. The promised aspirin could be poisoned, for all he knows._

_Although that might just be what WWCOMMS wants him to expect._

•

He would remember the tipping point coming about the day that the editor came over to his workspace with a too-pleasant grin.

“All in all, it’s a solid article, Wood. You make my job easy. But I see that you make a note of favouring Germany for the World Cup.”

It was hardly favouring, Woody thought. Just facts. “Yeah. Their squad is doing fairly well.”

“Well, that may be so, but I’d like you to rewrite the article, leave out any favouritism.” 

“...There’s never been a problem with me statin’ my opinions before, has there?”

“No, but every situation is different. Rewrite it. Keep it neutral. And don’t press so heavily on the statistics.”

Woody chuckled despite himself. The editor had never been this persnickety about one of his columns, and now that he was being ordered around, he didn’t much like the feel of it. “So, you want me to just… make it all up?”

The editor’s smile was less friendly. “Make your revisions, and then we’ll discuss it.”

Woody did as told, but the instructions sat heavy on his better judgment. He wasn’t an idiot; he could see an ulterior motive when it was right in front of him. It just didn’t make sense for his editor to care so much about a simple little opinion column, one based more on fact than anything else. It continued to defy sense until the same general conversation happened between them over three or four different articles. That, and holding quiet conversations with other columnists about their forced rewrites, made the picture clear. He, and everyone else, was being censored. WWCOMMS had certain special interests, the likes of which he didn’t follow.

“It sounds like you’re asking me to shut up and tow the line,” he challenged the editor one day, well aware that sass could trap him even further under the man’s unforgiving censorship. But instead of a reprimand, he simply received an odd look.

“I’m asking you to support your employer. We can’t all just walk around with our own ideas of how the world works.”

That comment stuck with Woody all through the evening. He decided he didn’t like the implications at all. Of course, it was still a good paying job that he’d be struggling without, and he’d make concessions if he had to— it wasn’t as if reporting sports could change the world. But that didn’t mean he had to _like_ it.

Everything seemed to go downhill from there.

The online articles weren’t the only thing being tweaked to talk from a certain angle. Woody was more of a Sky News viewer, honestly, but he’d still watch WWCOMMS’ broadcasts from time to time, and they just felt… off. If he wasn’t predisposed to skepticism because of what he’d experienced in the company, he’d certainly never have noticed. Everything felt like news ought to feel like. But the opinions were all the same anymore, and the facts… were they still facts? He was being told they were, but he had to wonder. What he once would take for granted was now under question.

If the editor seemed suspicious, it was probably because he _was._

If an article became unusable, intentional meddling felt just as easy to blame as random error.

If the woman three cubicles down and two months away from retirement unexpectedly stopped coming to work without anyone knowing the reason why, maybe that absence wasn’t in her control.

•

_The man doesn’t question Woody’s motives or get annoyed when the hostage takes back his request for pain killers. He simply leaves the two white pills and bottled water on the table and sits down._

_“Do you know where you are right now?”_

_Woody makes a face. “Kinda hard not to, ain’t it?”_

_“How does that make you feel?”_

_There’s the real answer to that question, and then there’s the multitude of lies he could tell. But, considering there’s a lie detector on the premises, it’s in his best interest to tell half truths instead of blatant falsities._

_“Oh, I dunno. Men come into your job and kidnap you, how d’you think you would feel?”_

_A flash of repentance colours the man’s face, but he doesn’t apologize._

_“I hear you punched one of our agents.”_

_“Mighta done.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I wasn’t sure if I could trust him.”_

_It’s clearly not the response the man has been expecting._

•

The editor had started sending the whole office for “supplemental learning”— what everyone soon learned were training videos that the top brass apparently thought were necessary. No one was particularly thrilled, and it didn’t make much sense to boot (training videos? for journalists?), but there really wasn’t any arguing against it.

Woody by nature was not the _most_ rebellious sort, but he also wasn’t going to waste his time with needless corporate nonsense. While they sat him down in the odd, small, isolated room about as big as a large broom closet and expected him to stare at a screen for an hour, he slipped out his mobile and did _actual_ work watching whatever plays of the week he meant to comment on in his next column. He was surprisingly tempted to watch the training videos, even if it was to internally mock the bull they were going to try feeding him and everyone else; but he was content doing something he actually believed was worth while.

He did look up once, however, pulling an AirPod out from one ear and listening to the last ten minutes of the video of the day. He really only meant to look for a moment, but something about the images and sounds on the computer kept him watching. It wasn’t like any job orientation video he’d seen before: a bizarre company pep talk of sorts layered over odd tones and rhythmic flashing images. Words about pushing the company’s bottom line, being united on the same views and opinions to keep WWCOMMS going strong, finessed into his head like an earworm.

By the time the video ended and he was allowed to leave the room, the company motto was circling his head like a hungry shark. _WWCOMMS — here for you, wherever you are._ In a way, he didn’t care to make it stop. But he realized very quickly that none of the crap they said in that training session was really worth dwelling upon. He already knew how he felt about the state of things, and his job had no right to dictate that.

Apparently, he was the only one who felt that way anymore.

As time went on, he noticed a change in his fellow columnists after each training session. Some still whispered distrust against company politics and policies, but they were less certain than usual. Some who agreed with him just as well as anyone started making rationalizations and excuses for the company, or even stopped joining in gossip entirely. One man from whom Woody had come to expect very strong opinions against WWCOMMS’ ethics even began arguing _in favour_ of their employer, anger in his unusually pale and glassy eyes as he raised his voice in unnecessarily vehement support of the bottom line.

Needless to say, when a small activist group calling themselves “Quarter Past Midnight” started making minor headlines for accusing WWCOMMS of misdeeds in their field, Woody wasn’t the least surprised.

•

_“I’m going to ask some more questions, but this time you’ll be hooked up to the polygraph. Do you mind?”_

_“Do I have a choice?”_

_The man chances a chuckle, but Woody hardly finds it a laughing matter. He’s been living the last few years of his life not having a choice, and he’s pretty fucking tired of it at that._

_“You’re reacting a lot better than expected. The others we brought in are taking it much worse.” The man says this all while attaching various sensors to Woody, even releasing his left hand to clip on a sensor to his finger. “Usually a WWCOMMS employee fights us every chance they get.”_

_“Dare ya to let my other hand loose. Then you’ll see a bleddy fight.”_

_“I’m curious, mate, not stupid.”_

•

“Mr Wood? Into my office, please.”

A summons to the editor’s mysterious sanctum of an office was never good news. Add to that the fact that, as Woody complied, the door was shut behind him, this particular summons was Very Bad news.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t. Woody had been mulling over putting in his two weeks for quite a time, now. WWCOMMS paid well, but it wasn’t worth staying in a workplace where everyone seemed to be slowly turning against common sense. If the editor was going to yell at him for his latest acts of journalistic defiance, maybe that was his sign to say _incidentally, I quit._

“Sit down.”

Again, Woody did as instructed. He was determined to play dumb and keep all his cards close to his chest until the opportunity to make his escape presented itself.

“Now, I hate to say anything against one of our valuable staff… but there’s word around the office that you’re not happy in your job anymore. Is that true?”

Woody fought the urge to scowl. _Stool pigeons._ Obviously, someone around the office was whispering about him. “Who’s saying that?” he hedged, hoping to learn who he had to avoid talking to from now on, at least until his final weeks were through.

The editor smiled an oily, disingenuous smile. “It hardly needed to be said by anyone. You have done a good job broadcasting it yourself. I’ve got to say, it’s bad form to go looking for other employment while you’re on our payroll.”

All right, that was crossing the line. Woody hadn’t mentioned his job search to anyone but Chrissy and his parents, and was very careful not to go checking any related websites while on company time. So, either the editor was pulling this claim out of his arse without really knowing if he was correct or not, or they were _spying on him._ Woody was inclined to assume the latter. He wasn’t sure _how_ they could be getting into his private search history on his mobile or laptop, but they must have found a way.

“No need to answer,” the editor said, aware of Woody’s hesitance despite the forcibly calm expression he wore. “I’m not asking you to defend your actions, merely to consider if this is really the way you want to go about things. You’ve invested a lot of time with WWCOMMS, and WWCOMMS has invested a lot in you. We’re willing to work with you, but only if you’re willing to reciprocate— and I don’t think that’s all too much to ask. I’m sure you’d rather be assured of some stability, instead of having to worry about your family’s welfare. I can’t think of any good husband who would want hard times to come upon his wife, especially when she’s expecting.”

The deliberate phrasing and tone gave Woody pause of the worst kind. 

“... Is that a threat?”

The editor didn’t flinch.

“Just consider it a friendly tip.”

•

_“Have you at any point undergone supplemental learning at WWCOMMS?”_

_“Sure. Don’t know that I learned much.”_

_The man jots a few letters on his noteboard, same as he’s done after every question since the lie detector was turned on._

_“What’s your opinion of Quarter Past Midnight?”_

_“I think you lot are lacking a little on the amenities in this place. Give it half a star.”_

_Another jot, and half a wry smile._

_“What’s your opinion of WWCOMMS?”_

_Woody doesn’t answer. The arms of the polygraph scratch out a more jagged line on the readout._

_“Are you worried what would happen to you if you told the truth and they found out?” A long pause. Bated breaths. “There’s no chance of them finding out. You’re safe here.”_

_“They already know everything they want to know,” Woody murmurs._

_The man furrows his brows, thinking on the response._

_“Does it have anything to do with that?”_

_His finger draws an invisible line to the silver band on Woody’s hand. Once again, Woody says nothing._

_“We saw the photographs when we went through your wallet. Wife and two boys.” There’s pity in the man’s eyes, but Woody doesn’t want it. He wants this discussion dropped. “WWCOMMS is holding them over your head, aren’t they? Keeping you from leaving.”_

_It hardly matters if he speaks or not. The recorded line of his anxieties betray him just fine._

_“We can help with that, you know,” the man continues quietly. “We can make sure you and your family are protected. I can’t force you to trust us, but I promise we’re a better alternative than WWCOMMS.”_

_Trust is a concept that Woody hasn’t played with in a very long time; yet there must be some merit in considering the man’s offer— wouldn’t anything be better than being a hostage in your own life?_

_Maybe not anything. But it might be worth taking that risk._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it funny or scary that it took me watching a training video at my job to give me exactly the kick in the pants I needed to finish this chapter after months of writer’s block? I say funny.
> 
> Again, whoops, I know nothing about news stations. Forgive me.

Will hadn’t expected to stay at WWCOMMS for more than four weeks.

Honestly, he hadn’t. The thought of a permanent job at the media company never crossed his mind. If someone had told him that WWCOMMS would practically become his whole life, his reaction would have been to smirk and shake his head and carry on with his day. It would be a joke to him and nothing more.

There were several reasons he would have felt this way, had there been such a prophetic tale about his future. For one: he had a track record, and a pernicious one at that. He was unhireable, or at the very least chronically unable to hold a job. He found himself in and out of employment so often that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to break the habit of inconsistency if he tried. Besides, it wasn’t as if his situation was _always_ his fault— sure, he’d been fired from a few jobs, or otherwise just stopped showing up, but there were times when his employers genuinely liked him yet had to trim expenses. So who was he to put in the effort to defy fate?

For two: he absolutely BS’ed his application. This was a bad habit of his, making embellishments on his employment history (mostly leaving out those one or two jobs where he’d been fired in less than two weeks from starting because of falling asleep at work or never even showing at all); but this application was by far the most egregious offense he’d committed. He had absolutely no background in proofreading. He _did_ have a decent enough grasp of the Queen’s English that he could write a letter or an e-mail like a civilized person, so long as he felt like putting in the effort. But he had not been pursuing English in uni before he dropped out (he had been pursuing art history, but the dropping out bit still rang true), and he certainly had never held any job where proofreading was asked of him. Eventually, WWCOMMS would be savvy to this (how they weren’t already, and why they hired him without checking his background first, was beyond him) and they would absolutely turn him out on his arse like he deserved.

For three: he was bored of the job before he even started it. Maybe that feeling was a bit hasty, but he knew what he liked and what he didn’t. Some looked at WWCOMMS and saw their professional peak, saw the rapid growth of the media company in both finance and social influence and thought working there would be a lifetime safety net. But when Will considered his new occupation— reading through field reports and fact-checkers’ findings, fixing syntax errors for the news studio’s teleprompters and all televised text— he saw a plateau. He saw the same basic task, over and over and over again, like any other “normal” job. No art, no philosophical enlightenment, nothing to be learned or improved upon other than speed reading, maybe. Jobs like that were fine and good for the money, but Will knew himself well. He’d want a change of scene soon enough.

But his time with Wild World Communications had nothing to do with him.

•

_Pain._

_It’s not life threatening pain— at least, he doesn’t think so— but it is enough pain to stir him out of unconsciousness._

_He groans, eyelids surrendering to sharp, artificial light. It takes a moment for him to understand that he’s been laid on his back, and thus the bright wall in front of him is actually the ceiling._

_That’s just wrong. He can accept that he’s hurting, and that he’s on his back, but there’s something suspiciously like a cheap mattress under him and the ceiling is not the blank white tiles that he’s supposed to see at WWCOMMS. Even the studio doesn’t look like this— stark contrasts of light and dark, yes, but the ceiling here is much too low. And it’s absolutely not a hospital, which is the only other place he can think he’d be taken to after a raid—_

_Oh. A raid._

_He winces as a sudden shadow blocks half of his skyward view and presses something on his aching forehead. It takes a moment (why must every realization take a bloody moment right now?), but he gathers the shadow is a dark hand, the something is a bandage, and this place is the last place a WWCOMMS employee would ever want to be. This is a 00:15 hideout._

_Sitting up and fighting back is less something he wants to do, and more something he’s pretty sure he NEEDS to do. His attempt to rise, however, is cut short by searing pain in his left shoulder and something sturdy attached to his right wrist._

_“The hell…” he mutters groggily, trying to fill in more of the pieces to this unfortunate puzzle. To the left, his injured limb is bound up in some sort of sling (and he vaguely remembers the tussle with a masked rebel, the way his arm had been pulled back too far for comfort); to the right, a scratched and tarnished handcuff is clasped to both him and the bed._

_“Be careful with your arm,” a voice warns him, and he looks up, realizing that it belongs to the owner of that dark hand. The last thing he expects from a 00:15 rebel is a smile, but that’s what the woman gives him under the harsh glow of the lights. “It’s sprained very badly, so you’ll want to keep it still for a while.”_

_He had gathered that bit of knowledge just fine without her help; however, there’s something more pressing to say than a petty retort. “Let me out of here.”_

_“I’m sorry. I can’t.” She stares at him in silence, only for a few seconds, before announcing, “Chessman will come in to talk with you later. You should try to rest up, meanwhile.”_

_Rest? Under these circumstances? He wants to argue, but the fight took a lot of energy, and to be honest, taking it easy doesn’t sound like a half bad idea. Besides, he has to be careful what he says. He knows the protocols. He’s been trained, just like every other WWCOMMS employee, on what to do should he be approached by a member of the Quarter Past Midnight movement. For now, silence is his best option._

•

Two weeks in, Will found himself seriously wondering how in the world no one had kicked him out of his job.

There was still that ever-pressing issue of him being wildly unqualified for the position. Apparently the studio crew hadn’t noticed anything lacking in his work— never let it be said that he didn’t pay attention in school, and never let it be said that he forgot useful learning— but he imagined somewhere like WWCOMMS would want to do extensive background checks on their employees, especially those working in a capacity directly related to the newsroom, which was, you know, the company’s primary service. He’d been hounded more about his job history to work at a chemist’s once, merely as a sales clerk. But here he was, still plugging in corrections to the scripts for England’s biggest up and coming media figures, and no one had said a word.

Part of him wanted to ask why this was, but then again, he needed the money at the moment. He wasn’t so proud that he wouldn’t ask someone in the family for a loan, but he also wasn’t so uncaring that he would _perpetually_ ask for a loan, and he knew he had to stand on his own two feet for a while. If he said a word to his employers even mildly suggesting that he’d given them a phony resume, they’d sack him without a doubt. And given that, again, WWCOMMS was wildly important and very professional, getting fired for lying could possibly tarnish his work record forever.

(He’d heard stories, sometimes milling about on the internet, sometimes told in third-hand tales from friends or relatives. Being fired from Wild World Communications— any part of the company, whether you were a member of the newsroom or an online journalist, a computer technician or, hell, even a custodian— was rare; yet whenever it did happen, if any amount of disgrace or scandal was involved, those people never found a job in their field again. Never let it be said that WWCOMMS didn’t have influence.)

So, even though staring at a computer screen judging grammar and syntax for a potpourri of headlines was beginning to feel like old hat already, Will kept his mouth shut. He’d landed this job, and he would keep it until he was good and ready to leave. Four weeks, while reasonable in terms of a job based on phony credentials, was not enough; London wasn’t a cheap city, and he’d need more time than that to cover rent and amenities and bus fares, despite the good pay he was getting, in anticipation of another long unemployment period. (The lack of money was always unfortunate, but he did like the time it gave him to practice drawing and the cello and the appreciation of late night infomercials.) If he could make it here for another five or six weeks, he’d be set until the next loan, the next job. 

WWCOMMS was only a stepping stone, but surely it didn’t hurt to stand still for a little while.

•

_What feels like hours pass after the woman leaves, but according to the dingy wall clock inside this uninspired prison cell of a room, it’s only been an hour and a half at best. He dozes off a little, still feeling woozy from getting knocked out in the fight, but his arm keeps waking him up. Damned rebels. It was one thing if they had to go around causing trouble out in the world (which was very bad and needed to be stopped, they were causing disunity and trying to take WWCOMMS down and who would ever join up with them, anyway?), but they came to the company and beat him up. Now his grudge is personal._

_A man enters the room, and Will’s first instinct is to whine at him, but he keeps his mouth shut. Have to be silent. Can’t reveal anything. Can’t give away secrets to crazy anarchists— especially not this one._

_The man doesn’t look like a rebel leader upon first impressions, dressed in casual clothes and wearing a neutral, inquisitive expression. Still, Will knows him._

_Chessman. The woman who bandaged him up mentioned that name. Typically, the rebels don’t show their faces, running around with masks and code names; but there are some who go public, spreading stories about WWCOMMS without hiding their identities, as if somehow showing their humanity makes them any more believable. Chessman tends to represent himself with his words rather than his face, but his notoriety still remains, at least through the whispers within the company. The newsroom has stopped reporting in detail about the people behind the rebellion— with many of their names and faces on Most Wanted bulletins, there’s really no point in giving them further exposure. Just as long as the world understands that these people are BAD, that’s all that matters. Will knows that they are bad, and that is enough to tell him how dangerous this man is._

•

Proofreading was something of a sporadic job. It wasn’t as if Will were an editor for the online columnists, able to sit down and review a fairly steady stream of articles before they got pushed onto WWCOMMS’ website. The televised evening news was repetitive on any given night, and the scripts were usually written earlier in the day. Unless breaking news needed to be punched into the teleprompter, Will was left to sit around the studio and observe.

That periodically opened up opportunities for unscripted talks with the anchors, waiting around behind the scenes until they were called away to their ever-important task of rattling off the international goings-on. As the weeks went forward, Will found he anticipated those moments. 

By the time he reached his sixth week at WWCOMMS, a routine had begun between him and the anchor for the seven o’clock news. One look at the man, with his conservative haircut and unending supply of dull grey suit jackets, and it could be assumed that his personality was only as deep as the headlines he read; but he was full of wry comments and philosophical quips, and enough confidence to drive his narrative. Sometimes his opinions aligned with Will’s opinions, and sometimes they did not; but Will appreciated someone who philosophized as he did. 

“They should make you a commentator, not just a reporter,” Will mentioned one day. “If they let you debate on air, I’m sure it would bring in the viewers.”

The anchor grinned. “Don’t worry. They’re promising some changes in the newsroom. New programming. Less reporting, more _information._ We’ll get the right words out there, it’s just going to take some time to make a smooth transition.”

Will could have pointed out how he was talking about sharing _opinions,_ not information. Information was obviously important— that’s what news was, information that folks talked about. But his new friend was talking about _opinion_ and _information_ like they were the same thing and, quite frankly, that was nonsense. Points of view didn’t become truth just because someone on a screen said it was so. But Will didn’t say a word. Surely it was just a misunderstanding of what the man had said.

Surely, it was just that.

•

_Will doesn’t bother looking Chessman in the eye, doing his best to seem uninterested rather than unsettled._

_“Afternoon,” the man greets. He seems unsure what to do with his hands, so he places them in his trouser pockets— again, looking nothing like the image of a criminal mastermind. “How are you feeling?”_

_Will’s eyes are trained on the wall next to his cot as he fights to keep his expression stiff. If the rebel thinks he’s going to make any progress by pretending he’s a nice guy, he’s dead wrong._

_“That’s probably a stupid question, with the arm… But we’ve got good people to fix you up. You’ve already met Doc, from what I’ve heard. Looks like she already worked a bit of magic on you.”_

_Will sighs, idly rattling the handcuffs, letting his gaze roam anywhere and everywhere except to Chessman._

_The rebel leader shrugs. “Don’t worry, I’ve got more questions you’re going to hate lined up for later. I figure you could use some rest first, after the mess our lads made of you.” He shuffles a little closer. “Though that’s hardly their fault. You didn’t have to fight them.”_

_Now that’s enough to get Will’s full attention. He can’t help but stare at his captor in disbelief._

_“Are you on something?” he asks._

_Chessman snorts. “You know, some days, I wish I was. But honestly… they’re good people. No matter what you’ve been told, they’re good people.”_

_Oh, right. Good people who twist other people’s arms out of place because they’re just such sporting anarchists. Such a sensible reminder in this topsy-turvy world._

_“Hm. By the look on your face, Mr…?”_

_Will grunts, tossing his gaze to the ceiling._

_“...By the look on your face,” Chessman resumes, “I’m guessing you’ll need more convincing.”_

_A small pang of anguished anticipation hits Will in the chest at that. “I hardly think more convincing is going to make me believe you,” he moans, limply wagging a finger from his right hand at his injured arm. “I’ll promise you that I’m—”_

_Suddenly, the words catch in his throat. It’s so easy to argue, sometimes, when he knows he’s right. It’s so easy to want to be smart. But this isn’t the time to be smart, no. This is the time to keep his wonderful mouth shut and do exactly what he’s been trained to do. Don’t talk back to a rebel outside of the designated perameters. Don’t make concessions or bargains. Don’t let them lie to you. And, most importantly, DO remember, “WWCOMMS is here for you, wherever you are.” He has to comply with the company guidelines if he has any hope of getting rescued and reinstated to his job, his very life._

_The void of silence his broken sentence leaves is eventually filled by Chessman’s completely unacceptable, not-to-be-heeded voice. “I know you’re used to forced convincing at WWCOMMS, whether you see it that way or not. But I promise you, we’re a much nicer alternative. We don’t plan to hurt you.”_

_Don’t they, though? Will’s seen the footage. He’s helped amend the very same supplemental learning scripts that every WWCOMMS employee ought to know by rote. He knows this will only end well if he says nothing and waits for help to arrive._

_Help had damn well better come before another sling does._

•

It wasn’t as if Will didn’t see the balances tipping in WWCOMMS’ programming, just as his anchor friend had predicted; one look at his responsibilities might have shown him as much. There were headlines, breaking news, follow-ups— the whole lot, just like before. But there was _more_ , now: little phrases and philosophies pulled straight from the mouths of the commentators and the anchors alike. Those were simple, thankfully, almost to the point that he was starting to predict exactly what to type before it came out of their mouths.

At first, the new commentary slots were of no consequence to him. Every broadcasting station had begun the same practices these days, waxing philosophical and explaining to world exactly what they thought about the human condition. What was so wrong with that? It was just the way things were. Besides, it didn’t hurt if Will _agreed_ with them to boot. For all the times he didn’t agree, well, it wasn’t worth expending energy to say otherwise.

In time, however, it all shifted. His entire perspective was turned on its head, gradually yet efficiently over months of employment that he never anticipated, and he began to care very deeply about it.

The “supplemental training” was a bit of a surprise— firstly, as generic training videos were something he would have expected from one of his various discarded retail jobs and not from WWCOMMS, and secondly, as the script was really quite appalling. One of the evening commentators had apparently been given a written copy of the first video’s content for review, and Will, being bored, had snuck peeks at the page. Whoever had written and edited the script had about as much talent at the keyboard as those chimpanzees that got set in front of typewriters to show how comparatively smart they were. There were words, certainly, and sentences that made sense on their own, yet it read as the most stilted and bizarre piece of on the job training he’d ever seen. _Unity of thought is essential. Your relationship with WWCOMMS is the most important affiliation you’ll ever have. The greater good is counting on our compliance._ There was even a break scripted for— hell, he wasn’t too sure. Reflection? Meditation? All it said was _“thought patterning”_ on the page. 

“Definitely avant-garde,” he muttered under his breath, stepping away from the desk. It felt weird. Being an appreciator of the arts, his opinion on “weird” meant _very_ weird. And while weird wasn’t synonymous to “bad”...

Equally as weird was the look that the commentator gave him on her walk back to the desk. Apparently, she had been close enough to hear his quiet opinion, to which she replied with a sharpened gaze, “It’s revolutionary. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

That was fair, he supposed, even though a cold chill ran up the back of his neck. Maybe the execution would be better than the concept.

And it was.

(He thought it was, anyway.)

•

_There is a very irritating little problem that he encounters after Chessman finally stops talking at him and leaves the room: boredom. Boredom in any other circumstance wouldn’t be so awful, as he could always turn to music or drawing or whatever new television drama all the kids are talking about these days. Here, there is nothing to appreciate._

_He probably shouldn’t be noticing boredom more readily than, say, fear or pain. But really: for all he could worry about the rebels, he shouldn’t— after all, WWCOMMS will get this under control eventually (probably, hopefully)— and he’s finally figured out how to lie on the cot without disturbing his injured arm. Thus, he’s finding himself back to being very cross that these utter wanks have pulled him away from a perfectly good, comfortable life all for the sake of berating him._

_But, cross as he is, the boredom forces him to reflect on the situation. He knows what he’s facing, of course. WWCOMMS had prepared him for this, even though they assure all employees that a raid will never really happen. (They always say that, even when the raids quite obviously happen, rare as they might be.) Outside of that, however, he has to realize that this is a peculiar predicament. He is somewhat a man of pride, and he wants to think he is, at least marginally, very intelligent, what with all his endless philosophizing he used to do back in the day. And yet… he hasn’t philosophized in a long time. After all, with WWCOMMS telling him what he needs to know (— but_ information _is not the same as_ opinion? _— he has to shake that thought out of his head), there’s not much need._

_There might have been a time where he would actually_ listen _to another man, however. To listen patiently and quietly, and to hold in all arguments until the speaker is at least a good hundred metres away to avoid the hassle of debate, at which point any mockery or criticism is fair game— that is Will’s modus operandi. Simply not listening… well, it really isn’t fair._

_However, getting kidnapped isn’t fair, either; for that fact, he is more than happy to follow WWCOMMS’ operating procedure._

_Still, it bothers him, if only a little. That boredom is definitely to blame for the fact that he now feels noticeably_ uncomfortable _for the first time in years._

•

Supplemental learning left Will with an awful headache and a fistful of mixed feelings. 

He was equal parts bored and amused in the beginning of his mandatory “learning” session. Then, as soon as he was just starting to reflect on how right he was about the weirdness of the script, he found himself suddenly wanting— needing, almost— to pay attention to every little poorly-written detail. By the end, he was fairly certain he could remember everything that was said purely on the grounds of it being too impressive to forget. He didn’t like it all that much, but a few of the senior staff kept talking up just how inspiring the video was, and he wasn’t inclined to argue. It was sort of inspiring, wasn’t it? For something so poorly done in concept, it actually came off as sincere, and that could be admired, right?

Besides, now he finally had more than one slogan to have stuck in his head on the regular. _WWCOMMS: here for you, wherever you are_ was fine in its own right, but it was starting to be a bit of a gimmick. Now there was all sorts of company cheerleading to be had— and that was good, he felt. 

The only thing that bothered him was hard to explain. Though Will was quite a champion at napping, he did not fall asleep during the video— how could he, when he was so unusually focused?— and yet it felt as if time had escaped him during the session. He remembered most of the taglines, and yet it seemed he couldn’t remember anything else. 

Still, he brushed that uneasiness aside without much trouble. After all, it wasn’t as if they brought about these videos every day. No, once every month or so, as updates to changes in policy, or simply as company motivation, was sufficient. It only took up a small corner of his day, and each time he ended up more happy with his job, more at ease with his co-workers, more proud of what he’d finally accomplished by being a part of a company so good, so important to the world. 

Something continued to feel _off,_ but it wasn’t as if that was WWCOMMS’ fault, was it?

•

_By the time he’s willing to either rip the clock off the wall or his eyeballs out of their sockets, just so he can stop watching the time and maybe get some real sleep, the woman named Doc strolls back into his prison. Unimpeded by the fog of coming to this time around, he’s able to glance at her face and avert his eyes petulantly before his gaze snaps right back to her._

_She’s really quite stunning, it turns out._

_He’s already on the precipice of getting lost in her eyes as she strolls in, closes the door behind her, and asks, “How’s your pain?”_

_To that, he winces out of habit as much as true discomfort. “Appalling.”_

_Her brows rise. “I was thinking more on a ‘one-to-ten’ scale,” she says, the vaguest hint of a smile on her generous lips._

_Silent for a moment, he wavers between wanting to tell her nothing (rebels, you know, the enemy and all that) and wanting to tell her his name, address, and mobile number. He wonders why he’s gone gaga so quickly over a lovely face— though it is a lovely, truly wondrous and amazing face, so it’s not like she doesn’t deserve admiration on her own merit— and realizes: when’s the last time he went anywhere besides the studio to see someone new besides a bus driver or shop clerk? When’s the last time he’s spoken to an unfamiliar woman? When’s the last time he bothered thinking about beauty of any sort?_

_When’s the last time any of that mattered?_

_(Comfortable. He’s been telling himself he’s been comfortable all this time, but suddenly ‘comfortable’ seems more like ‘complacent.’)_

_“Considering I’ve never had someone twist my arm half off,” he finally manages to push past his open-ended epiphany, “it’s a little hard to quantify something like that.”_

_“In other words, if I upped your painkillers, you might learn to like us a little better.”_

_Ah, right. The manipulation. He needs to remember that. These people kidnapped him, and beautiful faces or not, he_ needs _to remember that WWCOMMS has already told him everything he needs to know about 00:15, and WWCOMMS is here for him wherever he is—_

_(Why does that suddenly feel like less than the truth?)_

_At any rate, he feels a little better rolling his eyes at her._

_She doesn’t seem to mind, beyond whatever comes with the trace of pity in her features. “Right. I’ll be by with something as soon as I can. If you’re hungry, or if you need anything else, I can bring that along, too.”_

_Stubbornness wants to kick in, on top of his desire to not get bamboozled by a bunch of derelicts; but, among his continuously shifting thoughts (such a nuisance, at this rate he’ll NEVER be able to sleep), he knows the heavy weight of boredom waits in the wings._

_“Nothing you do or say is going to win me over, I’ll have you know,” he informs her. “But if you have anything resembling paper and pencil in this godforsaken place, I might just be able to survive through the night.”_

_Doc smiles and— dammit, she really shouldn’t do that. He’s already questioning so much._

•

Things were changing all around him, but for Will, that was fine. He was comfortable. What did it matter?

Some reporters, some anchors, some crew around the studio left the company. Why, he couldn’t say (he didn’t ask), but obviously, they weren’t needed at WWCOMMS anymore anyway. Others seemed agitated, seemed to bristle against the new corporate policies— but they were talked to, had reason explained to them, and in time the quarrels settled themselves. 

Something was wrong with one of the camera operators. He’d just barely noticed it as he was milling around the studio in between programming, as per usual: the strange gloss over the poor woman’s eyes, almost white in their shining. But she said she was wonderful, and everyone else said she was perfectly healthy, and though Will wasn’t inclined to believe it, he believed it anyway. He believed it when he saw the same thing with a PA, a grip, and the fellow who read off the noon headlines. He even believed that the slightest glaze over his own vision was really quite normal. If no one was worried, what point was there to question it? The work got done, and that was what really mattered. 

The only thing in the following years of Will’s employment that changed for the worse was the odd bit of backlash WWCOMMS was getting from some knobs calling themselves “Quarter Past Midnight.” They wanted change, they said, and transparency. WWCOMMS was reporting the news that the world needed to know; Will wasn’t sure how much more transparent one needed to be. They implied that WWCOMMS somehow worked by coercion, which was utter poppycock. Will didn’t know a single man or woman who wasn’t content with their work at the company, not a one. Then 00:15 started demonstrations and petitions— which were not abided, of course, being that WWCOMMS was well trusted by everyone, or at least everyone who mattered. 

At least 00:15’s caterwauling didn’t reach many ears. Will could take it or leave it, as it was almost funny to see how petty they were, but he knew that the newsroom was very selective about sensitive material like that. It wouldn’t do to shake employee trust in the company by scaring them with false threats; it also wouldn’t do for the public to listen to all that wasteful nonsense. The only way he knew any of it was by off-air whispers and jeers made by certain anchors whenever a chance appearance by one of the company executives came about. In the end, he agreed: it was better to keep 00:15 under wraps. Their strongest rhetoric even made _him_ uncomfortable sometimes, and he hadn’t felt that uncomfortable about anything in years.

That was the only change he did not appreciate, so it was best that no one ever talked about it.

•

_He starts by sketching the room._

_The order of operations doesn’t quite fall as simply as that, of course. It’s not Doc, but two other rebels he’s never seen before, who come to him with an unlabeled pill, a cup of water, and a graph paper notebook. After downing the pill, he receives a pen rather than a pencil, and he just barely restrains himself from giving the rebels what for when they less than delicately relocate the handcuff to his left arm. (He’d rather forgotten about actually_ needing his hand _to draw, but he also had begun to hope that they would realize he wasn’t in the mood to stage a one-man escape, and now he was in an entirely worse pose than before to keep his sprained muscles from screaming at him.)_

_Once they’ve left, he stares at the notebook for what feels like an eternity. (When’s the last time he tried to draw? Play guitar, cello, anything? When’s the last time he has_ expressed? _) Artist’s block is all too familiar, but this feels… advanced._

_He needs to go through with this, though. If he’s going to sit here, he’s going to make the most of it. He’s going to take advantage of the fact and do what he wants to—_

_Oh._

_Hmm._

_That would seem to imply that being fully absorbed in his work at WWCOMMS_ isn’t _what he actively wants to do. The thought is very uncomfortable, and yet… and yet..._

_Hmm, again._

_He doesn’t want to think about it, even though he’s certain he’ll have to; he just wants to fall back on something he can control. Something really, truly comfortable. Forget rebels and their rhetoric. Forget WWCOMMS, even, only for as long as it takes to draw something worth seeing._

_Pen goes to paper, and doubt is forced to wait its turn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Okay, so... that’s everything I had left from the first time I tried to write this fic. Everything I may or may not post from here on out would be new content. Be prepared for me forgetting how Bas lads + friends speak and interact because I’ve been an internet hermit for like a year and a half, wooooo~)
> 
> (Don’t post fic when it’s post-midnight and you’re sleep deprived, kids, or you’ll write author’s notes like me. :))


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